


Until the Full Moon Rises

by Compass_Rose



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Gen, Human Sides (Sanders Sides), Werewolves Are Also Kind of Illegal, except not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:34:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Compass_Rose/pseuds/Compass_Rose
Summary: Virgil Knight isn't interested in finding a 'forever family' or whatever kind of garbage the newest social worker likes to prattle at him. At 17 years old, all he really wants to do is survive his last year in the system and make life a little extra difficult for all the greedy, penny-pinching wastrels who look at him and see a nice, fat government check. Unfortunately for both his entertainment value and the sanity of the child care workers, there's not as many arrogant moochers desperate enough to risk someone with his track record as there used to be.So, when the system decides to place him with a 'Mr. Sanders', retired government employee and adopted father to three other former foster kids, he doesn't think much of it at first. After all, retired government employee could mean anything, probably the guy worked for the IRS or someth--Oh. Mr. Sanders was a former Hunter, a member of the special ops division employed for the sole purpose of tracking down and killing werewolves?Well, isn't that interesting. Because Virgil Knight just so happens to be a Wolf.So much for surviving his last year.AKA: my version of an adoption/magic/werewolf fic mashup.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	1. Home Isn't Where You Live

Virgil flailed listlessly as the car rumbled and bounced over yet another pothole. At this point it wasn’t even worth tensing up anymore, especially since his driver seemed determined to hit every single crater between them and their destination. Outside, the world rushed past in streams of green and brown and blue, and though Virgil already knew exactly where they were headed, it didn’t stop him from leaning closer toward the window or breathing just a little bit deeper as they sped past a turn off for RV campers.

He had learned long ago just how important it was to know the land, by sight _and_ by smell, and this trip was no exception. In fact, this time it was more important than ever that he found a way to escape.

This time his life could depend on it.

“Virgil?” The voice that broke into his thoughts sounded irritated and tense. Virgil knew better; he could smell the concern wafting off the women, and it took more self-control than he expected to keep from asking her to crack a window. Instead, he leaned even closer to the door, doing his best to focus on the scents outside the speeding car, rather than the cloying emotions inside. “Virgil, this is important. I need you to try and make this one work out, ok?”

They passed a MacDonald’s sign for a limited time offer of spicy Cajun chicken nuggets, and Virgil breathed as deeply as he could without drawing attention. It worked: the mingled scents of greasy, preprocessed beef and the burning aroma of peppers and spices overwhelmed the distracting stench of feelings.

His driver sighed. “Don’t you understand? You’re 17 now. There’s not that many people who are willing to foster someone that old, regardless of what the State says. And especially given your track record.”

A right turn at laundromat. Left at the Goodwill. Three traffic lights down, then brake for the pedestrians crossing the road.

“Look, once you turn 18 you age out of the system. Then you can go wherever you want. But for now, you’re still technically a ward of the State. It’s my job to find someone to take care of you until then. And it’s _your_ job to not drive this family out of their collective minds until they send you back. Again. Do you think you can handle that?”

A right turn down Sycamore Lane. They were getting close now.

“Virgil? Are you even—why do you have your headphones on?!”

 _To drown out your infernal screeching. Pity it doesn’t work,_ the teen in question thought to himself. To the service worker, however, he gave no reply. As she continued blustering, yelling louder and louder for him to take off the headphones, he continued to ignore her, his thoughts turning to a much more demanding topic. _Alright, I know where to go once I get out of here. Now I just have to figure out_ how _to escape. If I wait until night and swipe enough junk before leaving, I could probably make it to the border by sunrise._ If _I ran at my limit all night. But I’d have to stick to the backroads—can’t risk some ‘good Samaritan’ seeing me and getting the cops involved. Then again, even that might not be enough. This ‘Mr. Sanders’ could probably track me down anyway—even if I screwed roads altogether and went freaking cross-country! Freaking foster care! They just_ had _to place me with an ex-Hunter, didn’t they?! They could have put me with a nice, normal Ungifted family. Or even just a Gifted one, minus the insane, psycho, elite killer. But no. The system, in its infinite stupidity, decides to place_ me _in the home of a retired murderer! Ugh, good thing no one actually knows I’m a Wolf. I’d hate to see what they’d do to me, then._

The sound of the engine cutting off broke through his inner monologue. Turning his attention back to his surroundings, Virgil grimaced with distaste when he noticed the manicured lawn and pristine two-story house waiting outside his window. “Well, we’re here,” his driver chirped, her voice taking on a painfully obvious timbre of false cheer. Virgil turned away from the window, staring blandly the social worker. Their gazes met for a minute, maybe a minute and a half, before she cleared her throat, purposefully molding her lips into a mild scowl. “Really, Virgil, stop staring. It’s rude.”

Virgil snorted. Rude. Right. And that jolt of nervousness he smelled when she noticed him looking at her had nothing to do with it? No, Virgil had been around humans long enough to know they hated it when he made eye contact. It unnerved them when they heard his normal, human voice and saw his normal, human body and looked in his normal, human eyes and saw a predator staring back at them. Even though they were too blind to see him for what he truly was, they had enough common sense to realize there was something dangerous about him. And that realization terrified them. It always did.

Taking pity on the social worker, Virgil obligingly slid his gaze away, smirking to himself when he heard her ‘inaudible’ sigh of relief. “Ok!” She clapped her hands once, the sound making him wince even through his crappy headphones. “Let’s go meet your new foster family!”

“Oh, is it time already? I don’t know how I’m possibly going to contain all of my excitement.”

“C’mon, Virgil, don’t be like that.” The driver got out of the car and motioned for him to do the same. He did, but his movements were more stilted, more cautious, as he turned to take in the full view of the neighborhood. There were nine houses on this side of the street, as far as he could see, anyway, and at least that many on the right side. Each one had a fresh coat of paint and sparkling windows. Each had a perfectly trimmed lawn without even a single dead leaf or molehill defiling its beauty. Some houses were two-story, some had balconies, some had trellises, and some had pools or porch swings. But all were luxurious and extravagant and far out of the normal tax-bracket for people who took fosters in just to get a government check every month. Virgil flared his nostrils, taking in every scent he could. The more information he could get, the better.

His driver, on the other hand, was not nearly as surprised or concerned about the potential affluence of the family she would leave Virgil with. Adjusting her black Katie Spade bag over shoulder, the women continued her speech without even glancing backward to see if her client had followed. “Cheer up! The Sanders’ are good people, Virgil. In fact, Mr. Sanders has already adopted three other foster kids already, so he’s very experienced at this sort of thing. Not like your last family. Of course, none of the other kids were teens when he fostered them. But I’m sure it’ll be fine! You just have to try harder this time, ok? Virgil?”

Virgil scoffed, ignoring the social worker yet again, his attention fixated on the information the earth and air were yielding to him. So many scents were mixed together, running over one another, swirling and twisting and doubling back on themselves. But some were more deeply embedded in the land than others. Carefully, Virgil picked his way around these smells, untangling them from the fainter scents, and tracing them again and again until he formed a complete picture in his mind.

There were four people who lived in this house. The strongest scent belonged to an adult male, very likely the Hunter, and carried the aroma of cinnamon and rain and metal and flowers. He would remember that one well. His life could depend on it. The next strongest scents were hopelessly entangled in a way that not even Virgil could hope to separate. There were two of them, and while they were both unique to a point—one smelled of chocolate and sugar and dust and oak, the other of ink and electricity and mothballs and old books—they also both carried slight hints of the other, as if those who had caused the scents were irrevocably connected somehow. There was also the pungent undertone of adolescence, and Virgil breathed deeper, relieved when he was able to place the scents as younger than him. Facing down a full-grown Hunter was bad enough, he didn’t need to be distracted by idiots who would’ve probably assumed that they could boss him around just because they were born into this world before he was.

The final scent was even younger than the two intertwined, and what it lacked in strength it more than made up for in frequency. It was so present in the area, so engrained into every nook, every cranny, every speck of dirt, that Virgil doubted he would ever forget the smell, even if he left right now and spent the rest of his life hiding in the sewers. That wasn’t to say it was a rancid scent, if anything it reminded the Wolf of the musty scent of ash and the fresh wind racing through the trees and the salty undercurrent of the sea. It smelled like freedom and, like all the others, it smelled like magic.

Virgil stifled a groan. A family of mages. Wonderful. It wouldn’t have been easy to hide his true nature from an Ungifted ex-Hunter; how much harder would it be to conceal himself from a Gifted one? How much more eager would a Gifted one be to turn him over to the government, instead of just killing him outright? How much smarter, more careful, more cunning would he need to be to survive?

But survive he would. He had spent eleven years in foster care. He had learned when to hide and when to hunt, when to flee and when to fight, when to adapt to fit a challenge and when to force a problem to change to fit in _his_ world. He would survive because no one had ever taught him how to succumb. He would survive because he didn’t know how to do anything less.

“Virgil! Quit dawdling and get over here.” The social worker snapped, only just realizing that her temporary ward had paused in the middle of the yard, rather than following her up the porch steps like a polite young man.

Virgil, for once, didn’t need his nose to tell him her emotional state. The creeping blush and the way she wrung her hands as her eyes cut nervously to the unassuming doorway more than revealed her second-hand embarrassment at his behavior. The teen couldn’t help but give an amused huff as he stalked over to the porch. Humans and their social graces.

“Use the driveway!” She hissed as he cut across the picture-perfect lawn. “And for goodness sake, take off those ratty old headphones! Do you want to make a bad first impression?”

“They aren’t even plugged into anything,” Virgil sneered, holding up the end of the plug as proof.

“That doesn’t matter. It’s impolite! You promised me you’d try this time, Virgil!”

 _I have literally never once said that,_ Virgil thought caustically. But he didn’t waste his breath arguing, and he certainly made no move to take off the headphones. The driver glared at him, but when he turned to meet her eyes just a little bit more, she quickly spun back around and jabbed the doorbell, her mouth settling into a petulant frown. The two-tone chime of the bell rang out, sending Virgil’s hands flying to cover his ears, even with the headphones in play. His lips curled in pain, revealing a row of teeth that were just a little too white, a little too sharp, to be normal.

In contrast, the social worker had managed to push away her earlier discomfort and was standing calmly in the doorway, a cheerful smile painted over her face. And as the last tone faded into silence, as Virgil settled his features into something less feral and his driver carefully pushed a wayward lock of her perfectly coiffed hair back into place, a low creaking noise easily reached Virgil’s ears.

Ever so slowly, the door began to open.


	2. Into the Belly of the Den of the Nest of the Lair of the Enemy

In all his 17 years of life, Virgil had never met a Hunter face to face, though he’d heard plenty of stories. As a young pup, they had taken the form of milk teeth tales: grim fables and warnings told by the pack elders to teach their youngest members caution and forbearance. As he grew older and learned to live in the human world, those tales had changed. They became whispered, shadowed husks of the stories he knew, passed down not from generation to generation, but furtively traded back and forth in darkened alleyways or murmured about in the middle of large crowds, where no human possessed the sensitivity to hear. These stories, too, were warnings. But where the milk teeth tales of his youth were only grim, these recollections were horrifying. Where the tales taught of self-control and warned of the dangers of arrogance, these experiences taught only of the cruelty Hunters were capable of, the innovative tortures they had devised for the ‘monsters’ they feared in the night. The only warning, these stories whispered, was that those who were caught always prayed for the sweet release of death before it was over, and that death came only at the will of the Hunter, in the end.

So, as the door creaked open, Virgil thought that perhaps he could be forgiven the way his heart pounded a little harder against his ribcage, as if he were prey rather than predator. Maybe, just this once, he could excuse the way his innards twisted together, forming a knot at his center which wouldn’t be dislodged. Very few looked Death in the eye and lived to tell others of the danger.

If fear kept him alive, to count him among their number, he wouldn’t fight it.

But when the door swung open, when that terrible squeaking finally died out, when Virgil stared into the heart of his worst nightmare, a child’s face blinked back at him.

The boy wore a paper crown atop a sea of flyaway hair, Virgil noticed. He also held a painted sword in his left hand and—Virgil inhaled quietly—he smelled of ash and wind and of the sea.

Well, that was one mystery solved, at the very least.

“Well, hello there!” The social worker chirped, her voice rising into something sweet and childish and altogether demeaning. “Aw, look at you with your little paper crown! You think you’re a little prince, don’t you? How adorable!”

The kid’s face puckered into a disgusted scowl, apparently finding the women’s ridiculously over-the-top tone as insulting as Virgil did. Gripping his sword tight, he brandished it enthusiastically, if clumsily, almost slapping the social worker with the flat of the blade. Virgil silently encouraged the brat to try again. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” he informed them both with the air of someone who has heard this very rule repeated a hundred times and now has it permanently imprinted inside of their skull.

“That’s very smart of you,” the women cooed, earning a subtle eyeroll from Virgil and a much less subtle splutter from the boy. “But you don’t have to worry about us, we’re not bad guys. My name is Ms. Stacey Jenkins, and this,” she gestured to her left, “is Virgil Knight. We’re here to speak with your daddy, little guy.”

“How old do you think I am?” The kid scoffed, waving his sword and forcing Stacey to flinch back rather hurriedly.

Darn, another near miss. C’mon, brat, you can do better than that.

“I’m sure you can show us later,” Stacey replied pleasantly, “but right now we really need to talk to Mr. Sanders. So, why don’t you just call your dad for us, ok buddy?”

“Fine. _Papa!_ ” The boy screeched at the top of his lungs, making Stacey gasp and Virgil grit his teeth in pain. “There’s a dumb lady here to see you!”

Stacey’s smile turned sour, but before she could reprimand the brat, another voice drifted towards the doorway. “Pump the breaks, Roman!”

The kid cringed, glancing over his shoulder guiltily. Following his gaze, Virgil noticed a tall man quickly approaching them. A man dressed in a red polo shirt and slacks. A man who smelled like cinnamon and rain and metal and flowers.

Virgil tensed, and if he had been wearing his second skin, if he had been Wolf, his fur would’ve bristled, and his hackles raised. As it was, he had to settle for the all too human motion of narrowing his eyes, of edging slightly back, of watching the Hunter carefully, cautiously, the way most humans watched the shadows dance and play on their walls in the middle of the night.

The brat smiled innocently, but Virgil could smell the unease wafting from the tiny terror. “Haha. Hi, Papa. Uh, we have visitors?”

“I see that.” The Hunter offered Stacey and Virgil a brief smile, tinged with the delicate floral aroma of white orchids and purple hyacinths. “And thank you for getting the door for me. But you could’ve invited them in, instead of screaming across the house. Especially since I was coming right behind you.”

“I guess…” the boy scuffed one of his shoes against the carpet.

“And I also think you owe Ms. Jenkins an apology for calling her names, don’t you?”

Roman scowled, looking up at the Hunter so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash. “But Papa! She _was_ being dumb! She kept talking to me like I was a baby and she made fun of my crown! She called it adorable!”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to make you feel bad, Roman.” The Hunter lectured patiently. “But what should you have done, if you didn’t like the way she was talking to you?”

Roman bit his lip, and Virgil could smell the tiniest amount of guilt beginning to leak from the brat. “…Ask her to stop,” the child muttered.

“Ask her to stop,” the Hunter repeated, nodding his head. “ _Politely._ Not call her a name. I don’t think that’s very princely behavior, do you?”

That seemed to be the magic phrase, because Roman suddenly gasped in horror, his expression bypassing surprise completely and settling in shock. “No! I-it’s not! But I’m a good prince, Papa! I wanna be…”

The Hunter smiled softly at the boy, gazing down at him with such pride, such love, that even Virgil might have been fooled—if he didn’t already know what the monster was capable of. “I’m glad to hear that, Ro. But do you know what the _most_ important part of being a good prince is?”

“Uh, being nice?”

“The most important part of being a good prince is being able to admit when you’re wrong and to try to make up for your mistakes.”

“Oh,” the kid murmured in a small voice, his forehead wrinkling. He stared at the space between the adults for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. Then, like a room flooding with light at flip of a switch, his expression changed, hardened, into something determinedly resolute. Straightening himself, the young boy lifted his chin slightly, marching over to stand before Stacey and offering the woman a very solemn half-bow. “I’m sorry I called you dumb, lady,” he intoned with a formal gravity.

“Ms. Jenkins,” the Hunter supplied, his eyes crinkling near the edges.

“Ms. Jenkins,” Roman amended. “It was rude and mean and very unprincely of me. How can I make it up to you?”

Stacey blinked at the child, ruby red lips opening and closing as she struggled to find a coherent response. Virgil, despite the very present fear still stirring in his bones, couldn’t help the quiet snicker that tumbled from his lips. He didn’t often see the social worker so thoroughly blindsided by anything, least of all a brat barely tall enough to reach her navel.

Of course, it only lasted for a minute. Visibly pulling herself together, the driver curled her lips into a gracious smile and reached out to give the boy a pat on the head. “Oh, don’t worry about it, sweetie. I know how mischievous children can be sometimes,” she assured the Hunter, her voice rich in sympathetic understanding.

Roman frowned, his shoulders hunching defensively at her touch. Embarrassment and anger mixed together in a crimson flush across his face, but before he could respond, the Hunter cleared his throat.

“Yes, well…” taking a step back from the door, he gestured to the entryway. “Why don’t you both come in and make yourselves comfortable.”

Stacey pulled back her hand and straightened her bag, gliding inside the house as if it were Buckingham Palace and she were the Queen herself. Virgil didn’t follow immediately. Instead, he stood on the porch and lifted his eyes in silent challenge, staring at a spot just over the Hunter’s left shoulder. The Hunter’s smile became strained and Virgil could smell the discomfort mixed in with the monster’s natural scent. Did he really think Virgil was so stupid that he would show his back to an enemy?

Eventually, the Hunter seemed to get a clue, and with another painfully awkward smile, he turned and followed the social worker, leaving the young ~~man~~ to enter the house on his own terms. Virgil did so reluctantly, not bothering to shut door behind him as he entered.

The house was pleasantly furnished, the wallpaper patterned in neutral browns and tans, and the décor just fashionable enough to suggest that the house’s inhabitants were well-off, but not extravagant or materialistic. Jackets, toys, and books appeared at random intervals—on a table here, draped over a chair there, on top of a lampshade in the hall—and Stacey tsked disapprovingly, commiserating over how messy kids could be.

The Hunter laughed weakly and said something about the house normally looking much cleaner than this. Behind him, Virgil caught the scent of chipotle pepper and ginger root.

He was lying through his teeth. More importantly, this particular Hunter apparently couldn’t fib well enough to not produce a scent. Virgil would be able to tell when he lied, and that gave him advantage. At least for the moment.

The humans continued chatting lightly as they made their way through the house, though it didn’t escape Virgil’s notice that the social worker was doing most of the talking. He wondered if the Hunter was normally this quiet or if he was trying to hide something. Just the thought made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

After a small eternity, or so it seemed, the group finally reached the living room. The Hunter graciously invited them to have a seat and the social worker accepted with ease, taking care to keep her posture straight, her burgundy pantsuit immaculate, as she perched herself delicately in the center of the couch. The Hunter glanced in Virgil’s direction, but when the teen made no attempt to move in the direction of the couch, he quickly settled himself on the social worker’s left.

Virgil assumed the brat would follow his father, rather than sit by a stranger who’d already managed to offend him within the first ten minutes of their meeting (which was a new personal record, Virgil had been keeping score). Either that, or he would dart off to go play swords and princes, or whatever stupid pretend game he’d been playing when they arrived. What Virgil didn’t expect was for the kid to march right over to where the Wolf was lurking at the very threshold of the room and offer him a dazzling smile.

“So, this the part where Papa and Ms. Jenkins decide you’re gonna be my new big brother, right?”

The boy had pitched his voice a little lower when he asked that; he’d probably meant to whisper. But while the room was plenty large, it was still quiet enough for voices to carry, and the brat had only softened his voice a fraction of a decibel, if that. The other occupants of the room heard him clearly, and the social worker tittered, lifting a manicured hand to her mouth as she half-heartedly tried to suppress her laughter. The Hunter, curiously enough, turned red and offered Virgil a strange expression—one that he might almost have called apologetic, had it been anyone else—before reprimanding the boy.

“Roman, that’s not the kind of question you should be asking, bud.”

“Why not?” The brat half-turned, swiveling his head to face his father, but keeping his body positioned more neutrally in between him and Virgil. “That’s what he’s here for, right? You’re gonna adopt him, same way you adopted me and Pat and Lo, and we’re all gonna be brothers together.”

The Hunter ran a hand through his hair. “Uh, well, you shouldn’t ask that question because it’s invasive. And, as for why he’s here, well…”

“He’s here because the law says he still needs a legal guardian. For almost another year, anyway, and your Dad was the only one cra—only one compassionate enough to foster him for the next year,” Stacey intervened smoothly.

The kid pursed his lips and whirled back around to face Virgil, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion as he stared up at the older male. “What does she mean ‘for the next year’? You’re staying longer than that, aren’t you?”

Virgil glanced at the boy out of the corner of his eye, looking at him without staring. He could smell the uncertainty the brat felt at having misunderstood the situation, coupled with a sharp whiff of irritation. And underneath both the domineering odors, buried so deep Virgil nearly missed it even with the brat standing right in front of him, was the delicate fragrance of hope.

Slowly, Virgil raised his gaze, skirting the proximity of the Hunter, but never allowing himself to meet the beast’s line of sight—never looking the monster in the eye. Maybe, if things were different, he could at least bring himself to lie to the kid. If the boy’s father wasn’t a demon straight out of his kind’s worst nightmares, he could smile, and laugh, and agree to hang around until the squirt got sick of him, all the while knowing it would just be a matter of time until he—as the social worker had so eloquently put it—drove this family out of their collective minds.

Maybe he could’ve even had some fun with this group. It would’ve been hilarious to see how long the prim and proper set could deal with his _special_ brand of trolling.

Unfortunately, as amusing as it would’ve been, harassing this small army of monsters and monsters-in-the-making wasn’t worth his life. And he wouldn’t insult himself, or the dumb little kid in front of him, by pretending it was. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t even be staying that long.”

“But…” The boy’s face fell as he struggled to process the idea that, contrary to what he had been expecting, the teen had no intention of living with them any longer than he had to. “But don’t you want to have a family again?

“No.” Virgil’s refusal was quiet, but unyielding in its intensity. It was fierce enough to make the brat jump slightly, his eyes widening in surprise. It was hostile enough to make the social worker lean back in her seat, her face paling even as she opened her mouth to rebuke him. It was adamant enough to make the Hunter frown in his direction, an emotion that the Wolf no longer had the time or emotional energy to discern floating across his face.

But most of all, it was devastating enough to crack and chip away at the tattered remains of his fleeting self-control. All eyes were on him, and the instinctive fear that had been his ever-present ally since the moment Jenkins had told him that _this_ was where they were sending him, now pounded through his veins like the crash of the surf against the sand. He could feel the Wolf, his Wolf, pressing against his consciousness, stirred awake by the electric mix of fear and anger and unbridled adrenaline buzzing in his mind, in his bones. The Wolf urged him to fight. Virgil could feel its’ anger as clearly as he felt his own, and it fed and fed on his rage in turn, trapping them both in a self-perpetuating cycle of hate.

But it wasn’t even close to nightfall yet, and even if it had been, the moon was only in its waxing crescent phase. That was all his Wolf could do for now.

Virgil swallowed painfully against the sudden tightness in his throat. All of a sudden, the room seemed far too small for the four of them. The boy was too close and the stench of his confusion and hurt burned Virgil’s lungs with every breath he took. The weight of adults’ gaze—the arrogant disapproval of the social worker and the strange, searching stare of the Hunter—fell heavy on the foster child. His inner Wolf quieted suddenly, as wary as he was of this killer in man’s clothing.

Pressing his tongue against the back of his too sharp, too inhuman, teeth, the teen lowered his head—not completely, not enough to allow the Hunter to escape his sight—but enough so that it would be difficult for either of the adults to get a good glimpse at his face from their angles on the couch. Enough so that the Hunter couldn’t see the predator lurking within.

The man must have thought he was embarrassed by his outburst, because he cleared his throat then, awkwardness and discomfort pouring from him in waves. “Well. That’s fine, Virgil. We’re not—wait, is it ok if I call you Virgil?”

Virgil didn’t raise his head. He still felt too feral, too wild, to risk the Hunter recognizing him for what he truly was. But he forced his shoulders to relax and somehow managed to pry his jaw open long enough to spit out a response. “Call me whatever the f—” he glanced at the brat, who even now was glaring at him with that half-shocked half-confused expression, and amended his sentence. Slightly. “—Frick you want. I honestly couldn’t care less.”

“Ok,” the Hunter nodded, forcing a wobbly smile across his lips. “Ok then, Virgil. We’re not trying to replace your family, alright? Roman didn’t mean it like that. We just…want to give you a roof and bed. At least until you’re old enough to buy one of your own,” he joked pitifully.

“A roof and a bed. That’s all? No tricks, no lies?” Virgil flicked his stare over to the kid, just for a moment. “No pretending like we’re some kind of pa—some kind of stupid family just because I happen to be staying here for a while?”

“No tricks,” The Hunter agreed, and Virgil narrowed his eyes. So, the monster wasn’t even pretending he would be honest with Virgil. Good. That saved them both the trouble.

The boy pouted, twisting his head back around to face his father with an almost betrayed expression. “But Papa! Why can’t you adopt Virgil like you adopted us?”

“Because that’s not what he wants, buddy. And that’s ok.” The man stared at Virgil, but when the other made no move to meet his eyes he sighed and continued, speaking as openly and truthfully as he knew how, “You’re going to be living with us for the next year, Virgil, but I want to make one thing clear from the start. Nothing else is going to happen without your approval. If you decide you want to be part of the family later on down the line, that’s wonderful. I’ve already adopted three boys; I certainly wouldn’t mind adopting another. But if all you ever want is just a roof and a bed until you’re old enough to legally be on your own, that’s fine too. This is _your_ life, and your old enough and bright enough, from what I’ve heard, to be able to make your own decisions about how you want it to go.”

A beat of silence passed and Virgil realized they were waiting on him to say something. _What_ they wanted him to say, he had no idea. He already knew the monster was lying—even if he didn’t smell like it now. He had heard plenty of other foster families say the same thing: ‘oh, we’re delighted to have you here, Virgil.’ ‘Yes, we have other kids, but you’re just as much a part of the family as they are, don’t you worry.’ ‘Now, be sure to tell us if you don’t like the room we decorated for you. We won’t get mad, we promise.’ This was just a new spin in an old dance, one that Virgil had been swaying to long before this Hunter and his ilk entered the picture. Even if the beast believed what he was saying now, he wouldn’t mean it for very long. As soon as the first little snit appeared in his plan, as soon as somebody’s schedule conflicted with an event he had planned or the house needed to be cleaned _right now_ to impress whoever was coming over for dinner, the Hunter would realize he had an extra pair of hands he could work to the bone or a built-in babysitter who should be grateful to drop everything in his life at a moment’s notice to watch his kid. And once that happened all the sweet, perfect little thoughts about Virgil having control his own life would vanish like smoke in the wind, and he would be right back where he always was: basically an indentured servant until the day he turned 18 and aged out of the system, or else convinced his ‘family’ that it was more trouble than it was worth to keep him and they should send him back and get a quieter kid.

Of course, all that was assuming he wasn’t able to make his escape by the time the Hunter realized he had free labor on hand for the next eleven months or so.

Or otherwise, you know, murdered.

A loud, repetitive thud reached his keen ears, breaking his concentration. Pulled from his musings, Virgil watched curiously as the brat stomped over to his father. At first, it appeared as though the spirited boy was going to argue with the Hunter’s decision, but the child only crossed his arms and glowered at the older man, as if the other was personally responsible for all the injustices of the world.

The Hunter merely laughed at the sight, pulling the kid into a warm embrace. The boy huffed, but conceded after a moment, wrapping his own gangly arms around his father’s back.

Virgil stared at the two for a moment, amazed that a Hunter—even a retired one—would be so affectionate with his offspring. Then the social worker coughed daintily into her hand, and the Wolf remembered where he was and exactly what brutality that ‘affectionate father’ could be capable of, if given the chance. Virgil quickly turned away, mentally chastising himself even as he watched the trio of humans carefully out of the corner of his eye.

Stacey cleared her throat, instantly commanding the attention of the room. “Well, now that we’ve gotten all of those… _misunderstandings_ settled, perhaps we can move on to more important matters.” She opened her purse with a snap, digging around briefly before producing a folded stack of papers. “I do still have some signatures I need from you, Mr. Sanders. Then, assuming you and Virgil have no further questions for me, I’ll be out of your hair and the three of you can start to get to know one another.”

“Of course,” the Hunter muttered, releasing his son from the hug. Roman huffed, but there was a note of playful amusement in the sound as he stepped back to give the older man room to maneuver. The Hunter began rifling through his pockets, his movements becoming more and more harried with each passing second. “Just let me find a pen…”

Stacey sighed and opened her purse yet again, locating a red gel pen almost instantly. “Here you are, Mr. Sanders,” she offered in a tone that was only slightly forced. 

With an embarrassed chuckle, the Hunter accepted the pen, bending over the low mahogany coffee table to sign his name with a flourish. He repeated the procedure several more times—signing here, checking that box, initialing this line—until finally there were no more pages left to sign. Before the ink was dry on the last signature, Stacey snatched the packet from the table, folding it perfectly and putting it back in her bag. “Well, that’s that. Congratulations, Virgil,” she added, smiling at her former charge, “you have a new foster family. Remember what we talked about, ok?”

Virgil only scoffed, rolling his eyes as the social worker stood up, though he eyed the Hunter cautiously when he rose from the couch as well.

“Well, I guess that’s everything,” Stacey chirped brightly.

“I’ll see you out,” the killer offered, before glancing over at Virgil.

Even though his face was still mostly hidden, Virgil could still feel the curious probing of those eyes, and that knowledge alone made his skin crawl. Almost involuntarily, his upper lip began to curl in silent challenge, even as he carefully edged away from the doorway, making sure to keep the wall at his back.

“Roman, why don’t you go show Virgil the room we picked out for him, ok bud? Maybe help him get settled in.”

“Ok, Papa,” the brat agreed, crossing the room to take Virgil’s hand. The Wolf immediately snatched it way, pinning the boy with a dark glare.

Roman blinked, but after a moment he narrowed his own eyes, returning the older boy’s hostility with a fierce glower of his own. “Fine, be like that. Just follow me, then.” The kid stalked off, clearly expecting Virgil to follow him. The teen glanced back at the two adults, then slunk out after the brat. No sooner had he left the room, however, than he hung a quick right, ducking behind some obviously plastic plant in the corner.

He waited. For a moment, no one said anything, and Virgil wondered if he’d misread the situation. He was usually pretty good at reading body language and all of it—the way the two had stood, close to each other but still somewhat tense and closed off, the way the beast had sent his son and Virgil from the room without even making a move toward the door, despite his intention of seeing the social worker out, the way Stacey had tightened her lips just slightly, the way she did when she had something to say but couldn’t let herself say it for whatever reason—suggested that the two of them had more things to talk about.

Things regarding Virgil; things they didn’t want Virgil to hear. Or else didn’t think he needed to hear.

And Virgil…well, he disagreed. Vehemently. So, he waited and listened, and soon enough the social worker’s voice rose into the quiet. 

“Mr. Sanders, there is one more thing I wanted to speak to you about.”

“I kind of thought you did. You look like you have something on your mind. Is everything alright?”

“With me, yes. With Virgil…” The woman sighed, and Virgil strained his ears and inhaled sharply, trying to glean more information than her words and tone provided. In a way, he almost regretted leaving the room—humans revealed so much through their body language, without even realizing it.

“What’s wrong with Virgil?”

“That’s the million dollar question isn’t it? When my department first reached out to you about taking him, they must have mentioned his, er…track record with foster families.”

“That did come up, yes. They said the poor guy kept getting bounced around from house to house. That the longest he’d ever stayed in one place was a year and a half. And that when he was eight.”

“Yes, well…” There was a weighted pause, and Virgil could just imagine the social worker pursing her lips, trying to find the most tactful way to pass whatever new judgement she’d formed against him. “What my superiors might have failed to mention—purely by accident, I’m sure, a simple clerical error—was that Virgil’s constant transfers are more frequently a result of him being… _difficult_ to handle.”

Silence, and Virgil gritted his teeth from where he crouched behind the fake Ficus. He already knew how a Hunter took to dealing with things they found…difficult to handle.

“And you think that’ll scare me off, right?” The man replied, his voice knowing. “That’s why you waited until after I signed the papers before telling me this. You thought if I knew, then I would change my mind about fostering him.”

Stacey’s voice was more than little chagrined when she replied, “I just want you to be prepared for what you’re getting in to. Virgil finds it hard to trust those around him. Many foster kids do, especially the older ones. He’s not going to make it easy for you just because you legally have guardianship over him for the next year. If you really want to help him as much as you say you do, you’ll have to earn that trust. Otherwise, I’ll just be having this conversation all over again with someone else in three months. Assuming the department can actually find anyone else willing to take him,” she added under her breath.

“Believe me, Ms. Jenkins, I have no attention of letting that happen. Thank you for your concern, but I’m afraid you won’t be seeing Virgil again. A-as a client,” he added hastily. “Of course, you’re welcome to come by and visit any time. If social services need to follow up with anything or, uh, if you just wanna come by and see him again, or—”

The social worker laughed. “I understood what you meant. And I hope you’re right, for Virgil’s sake if nothing else.”

“I will be,” the Hunter said firmly, his voice devoid of even the barest trace of doubt.

“In that case, Mr. Sanders, I can honestly say it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please,” Mr. Sanders replied, “call me Thomas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, there's one or two spots I'm still not completely satisfied with, but it's been almost a month and I don't want to leave you guys waiting in longer. *Chef's kiss* Enjoy, my internet friends.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> ~Compass_Rose


End file.
